


take my heart along

by noplacespecial



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: And Moping, F/M, Future Fic, how not to relationship, human crap-sack tire fire human beings, lots of undiscussed mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplacespecial/pseuds/noplacespecial
Summary: Kate's been gone for five years and Clint will tell anyone in earshot that he's just fine without her.  He's only half lying.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlphaFlyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/gifts).



> This only somewhat follows the comics, and runs on the premise that Kate's trip to LA lasted years instead of months. Distance, naturally, does nothing to improve the Hawkeyes' collective communication skills. (Title from Nickel Creek's "When You Come Back Down".)

When Kate is 16, Clint sees her across a crowded subway car. Normally she wouldn't make much of an impression - pretty girl, young, designer clothes... dime a dozen. But he can feel her gaze searing into the back of his neck, and every time he looks up she's watching him with shrewd eyes; sometimes his face, but mostly his quiver. He doesn't know what to make of her - she certainly doesn't look like the usual supervillain he should be worried about, but she's also clearly more than a curious bystander. When he gets off at his stop, he doesn't have to look behind him to know she's following. Half a block from his building, he feels a tug at the straps of his pack, and whirls around to grab the slim fingers trying to extract his compact bow.

"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, doll, but you're a _terrible_ pickpocket," he says casually. Her eyes narrow, and she yanks her hand out of his.

"Yeah, whatever," she mutters sullenly. "Look, I'll buy the bow off of you, okay? Whatever you want, I'll triple it." 

"Not for sale. Now scamper off and try the poor little rich girl routine on someone else." 

"Give me a target, then. I hit it, you _give_ me the bow." Clint laughs. The girl has balls, he'll give her that. There's a clear confidence in her voice; he'd bet anything that she's used to scamming people based on her looks and her age. But he has to admit he's curious - not many people that would bother trying to rob someone twice their size for medieval weaponry. 

"Okay. Show me what you've got."

He takes her up to the roof of the building, to the very back corner where he's got a metal trunk full of targets and practice dummies. Nobody in the building cares if he shoots up here, as long has he warns them (the proverbial sock on the door handle) and he cleans up when he's done. He's got a state-of-the-art practice range at the Tower, and makes good use of it, but sometimes it's nice to get back to basics. Clint hauls out an old-fashioned wooden bullseye and sets it at an awkward angle on the corner of the rooftop, then guides the girl back behind the vents.

"Hit dead center from here and it's all yours," he says, handing over the bow. She takes a second to figure out how to flip it open, reaches over his shoulder to grab an arrow, and nocks it back. She slows her breathing, steadies her shoulders, and aims, measured and careful. Clint blinks when she lets it fly and it lands, if not actually dead center, pretty damn close. The girl raises her brow in triumph.

"Like to see you do better than that," she challenges. Clint grins at her, cocksure.

"Sweetheart, this is what I was born for," he responds, and deftly lifts the bow from her hands. It's all one smooth motion, from grabbing the arrow to loosing it to hitting a picture-perfect bullseye, and he doesn't miss the awe on her face. "Maybe next time," he says jovially. And really, that should be that. His life is fucked-up enough as it is, the last thing he needs is to drag some kid into it. But there's a reverence to the way she handled his equipment, and coupled with the expert way she took her shot, he can’t help but see a little of himself in her - minus the cupid costume, of course.

"Whatever," the girl says again with a shrug, and turns to leave. Sore loser - he gets that, too. And before he can stop himself, Clint is calling after her.

"Look, I've got plenty of old bows," he says. "Aim like that, gotta have something." She huffs, hand on her hip, the very picture of scorn. 

"I _have_ a bow already, genius - how do you think I got so good in the first place? If all I wanted was a piece of stick and a string, I could get one for twenty bucks from the sporting goods section of Wal-Mart."

"I don't actually think-"

"I need something _good._ ," she cuts him off, with an impatient gesture. "Something with real firepower."

 _Need_ , she says. Not just want, but _need_.

"What's your name, kid?" he asks. The girl's eyes shoot fire, and she draws herself up to full height; most likely at his use of the word 'kid'.

"Kate Bishop," she says, and he instantly recognizes the last name. One of the wealthiest families in the city (she's probably never set foot in a Wal-Mart in her life), and here's Clint hanging out with their teenage daughter on the rooftop of his ramshackle apartment building, about to offer to mentor her. Barton, you dummy.

But she's looking at his bow again, and he sees it in her eyes - something fierce and loving, the same look he imagines he had when he picked up his first bow (which was indeed just a stick and a string - quite literally, in fact). That kind of passion doesn't come by every day, and he's got the chance to mold it into something worthwhile. Give her a chance to do something great, if she chooses. He thinks of Barney, and knows he can't pass it up.

"Nice to meet you, Kate. I'm Hawkeye."

~*~

When Kate is 16, she has more energy and grit than anyone Clint has ever met. It's rocky the first few months - both of them are stubborn as mules, and they test each other, push each others' buttons. But no matter how hard he works her, how much he berates her, Kate never loses that steely-eyed look of determination. She wants this, maybe even more than he does sometimes. She patrols with her team and parties with her friends and shows up on his couch at 4am, wakes up the next morning hung over and still matches him bullseye for bullseye (after stealing all of his coffee). She gets knocked down and leaps back up, bruised and bloody, as if it doesn't even faze her.

When Kate is 16, Clint looks at her and feels tired.

When Kate is 25, Clint looks at her and feels _exhausted._

In the years since she's been gone she's graduated college, taken down her father's company and sent him to prison, fired every employee and turned it into a non-profit, run the Young Avengers until they really couldn't call themselves young so much anymore, done several stints with West Coast Avengers, and single-handedly taken down Baron Zemo for good.

In the years since she's been gone the most note-worthy thing Clint has done is stay alive. And only just barely.

Turns out, you _can_ get fired from the Avengers. It was Natasha that they sent to finally tell him the news, and she did it in that quiet voice she uses with all the street girls she secretly looks out for. Clint can't really blame them - one more knock to the head and there probably wasn't going to be much of anything left. Nat had kissed his forehead and promised to stay in touch, but that was hard to do when she was always off saving the world somewhere without cell reception. He hasn't seen her in months - last he heard, she was undercover in Nepal.

Officially, he's now an independent contractor with SHIELD. Which means that every once in awhile, they trot him out to help plan ops, even though there are a dozen guys waiting in the wings glaring that actually have tactical training, and know how to operate all the gadgets. It makes him more and more depressed each time, and as the jobs dwindle to once every few months, he finds that he doesn't much mind. He keeps busy in the meantime - he starts teaching classes at the YMCA, more as a joke than anything when Bobbi first shoved the newspaper ad in his face seeking archery instructors. He’d been half convinced that it was some sort of elaborate prank, but one of the staff members recognized him when he first came through the door, and gave him the job on the spot. One class turned into two turned into self-defense lessons and a circle of cheering kids who whoop and holler as he shows off some of his old circus moves. They tease him about breaking a hip, but he's the one they call at two in the morning when they need someone to bail them out of a dicey situation, and Clint goes more than willingly. He remembers what it was like, he and Barney either roaming the streets and not knowing whether they would eat that night, or staying at home and risking the aftermath of one of their dad's benders. He gives advice where he can, but tries not to judge if they choose not to follow it. 

It’s not saving the world from Doombots, but Clint is proud of the work he’s doing. The others are proud of him too, as much as he likes to pretend that it doesn’t matter to him, but Natasha admits softly one night as they’re freezing out on the fire escape passing a beer between them that she envies what he’s able to give his kids - she does what she can for the girls she looks after, but she’s never been able to be a stable force, someone they could run to at a moment’s notice. The other instructors and various staffers at the Y help in their own ways too, some giving far more than they have to spare, but Clint’s got a unique combination of skills, connections, and funds that allow him to step in where sometimes no one else can. He leads a quiet kind of life these days, further and further removed from Avengers and assorted supervillains.

And it’s not that he’s ashamed of it. Really he’s not. But it’s hard, when Kate breezes back into his life making it all look so easy, not to feel at least a little self-conscious. Which he acknowledges is ridiculous, because one of the best parts of their friendship is that Kate never judges him. She’s seen him, flaws and all, from the very beginning, and she stuck around for as long as she was able. He’s so glad that she’s here, that she’s home, and he hates himself a little for letting his own insecurities spoil that. Shouldn’t he be proud of all she’s accomplished, instead of bemoaning what he hasn’t?

He’s skulking around the range one afternoon, watching her sink bullseye after bullseye. She’s got three arrows threaded between her fingers, her frame solid as she steadies her breathing. It’s definitely a show-off move - not something that can be relied on for accuracy during actual combat - and he has a feeling that a good part of it is for the benefit of the junior agents huddled into the firing range next door. She misses the first attempt, but all three stick the next time around. She lets out a loud whoop as Clint tips his imaginary hat.

“I learned from the best,” she says, knocking her shoulder into his. Clint snorts, that pang stinging in his chest again.

“I don’t know how much credit I can take,” he says. Kate laughs, but must see something lurking beneath his usual grumpy resting face, because she stops short and peers at him, moving into his personal space.

“Dude,” she says. Clint shrugs and looks behind her, starting when he feels her small strong hand take his. “Clint,” she says firmly, not seeming to care that the pod of baby agents next door is still watching them. “Are you for real right now?”

“Look, Kate, it’s been all you the last few years, and you’ve done amazing things. I’m not going to pretend that I had anything to do with that.” Kate snorts and tangles their fingers together.

“And I’m not going to pretend you didn’t,” she counters. “Clint, you taught me everything I know.”

“I-”

“You taught me everything I know,” she repeats, and Clint can only sigh in acquiescence. He learned a long time ago not to bother arguing with her; as it turns out, she’s usually right.

~*~

When Kate is 17, the building in Bed-Stuy is a crumbling shithole. It doesn't stop her from spending most of her time there though, sacked out on Clint's couch and stealing his beer. And that's mostly because he makes such horrible life choices that the disapproving fatherly figure look he gives her when she cracks open a bottle of Heineken is completely hilarious. They watch shitty movies on his tiny TV and drink bad coffee and run drills on the roof. The rest of the tenants have turned it into somewhat of a spectator sport, cheering and placing bets from their lawn chair stadium. Clint doesn't bother packing the targets away anymore - he owns the building in name now, but the roof is the only place that has ever truly feels like _his_.

When Kate is 25, the building is tricked-out to within an inch of its life.

"People give me what they can," Clint explains, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he's uncomfortable. "I don't really need to ask for it, but I don't feel right refusing it either. So anything I get goes right back into the building. First I fixed that rickety old fire escape, then I replaced the carpeting...then I just kept going."

There are flat-screen TV's in every apartment, free wi-fi, and a section of the roof has been walled off to house a hot tub. Not to mention it's one of the safest buildings in the city, after the tracksuit mafia had dispersed. Everyone's seen and heard about the landlord with the bow and arrow, and nobody bothers messing with him. It's one of the most sought-after places to live, but the only way in is word of mouth. Somebody moves out, and a friend or family member that needs a place moves in. The rent never changes, and half the people there can't afford it anyway, but that doesn't really matter to Clint. He's able to give decent people a nice place to live, and it's great. It's something he can be proud of.

Kate slips back into place as if nothing has changed. She doesn't party anymore; doesn't seem to have many friends at all really, but Clint never says anything because he knows if he tries to ask it'll come out wrong. But she still shows up on his couch in the middle of the night and steals his beer. They still watch shitty movies on his tiny TV and drink bad coffee and run drills on the roof. There's an actual range now, behind the hot tub enclosure - nothing big or fancy, but permanent. His.

A lot of things have changed in five years, but Kate's aim is not one of them - it's improved, if anything. They spend most of their time challenging each other, doing dumb shit like shooting stuff off of each others' heads. The other tenants still pull up chairs and watch; some of them have been here long enough that they remember her, and they recreate some of their best performances. 

The roof is still his favorite place in this world, but it's starting to feel more and more like _theirs_.

~*~

When Kate is 18, she kisses him. Clint rears back immediately.

"Woah, kiddo," he says carefully. Kate huffs, and he knows it's at his use of 'kiddo', which she has told him repeatedly that she hates. But it seems like a good time to bring it out, because while she may be technically legal (by a scant few weeks) she's still so very much a girl. She's also been drinking, and fighting with her dad, and is banged all to hell from the last time they sparred. It makes it easy to grip her gently by the shoulders and hold her at arm's length. "That's probably a bad idea."

"Barton, you wouldn't know a good idea if it bit you on the ass," she retorts. Okay, she may have a point, but that's neither here nor there.

She doesn't push it, and he doesn't mention it again, but he waits for it to get awkward. It doesn't. She retains her claim on his couch, still shows up for every practice and mocks him mercilessly. She dates around, sometimes - a few good ones, a few not-so-good ones. He...well, dating probably isn't the right word, but that's never really been his strong suit, and Kate takes great delight in pointing this out. But she's still there when he needs her, even though more often than not he refuses to admit to needing anyone, much less a teenage girl. She ignores him, kicks or hits him, then hugs him fiercely. 

He does not deserve her.

When Kate is 25, he kisses her. She doesn't back away.

"This another one of your bad ideas, Barton?" she teases as her hand slips under his shirt. Her fingers trace the roadmap of scars on his chest, both old and new, and he breathes her in.

"I think this may actually be one of the good ones."

~*~

When Kate is 19, Hawkeye is a unit. Two halves of a whole. They move in sync, breathe in tandem, live out of each others’ pockets. Not all of the Avengers get it, especially given the age difference, but they accept it - the Hawkeyes are a package deal.

Most of the others think they’re sleeping together. He gets more than a few Disapproving Captain America looks when they're at the Tower and Kate swings her feet up into his lap, lays her head on his shoulder, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Tony tries to give him discreet fist-bumps, which are even worse. Because the aborted kiss seems to be behind them, and they're back to their own version of normal, but he forgets sometimes that their normal is maybe not everyone else's. He knows what it looks like - a grown man spending all his time alone in his apartment with a teenage girl - and it's not great. He wishes they could just exist within that little bubble forever; watching stupid YouTube videos, eating entirely unhealthy amounts of pizza, and shooting, side by side, bodies and bows all meshed into one. 

Turns out, the world doesn't seem to be on board with this plan, and instead he's faced with pointed comments from America and horrible things written about her online. Never mind that she's twice the hero he ever was at that age, and makes infinitely better life choices, people still insist on calling her "Baby Hawkeye", "the other Hawkeye", "the girl" or - and this is the one that she has straight-up almost choked a bitch over - "Hawkeye's sidekick". Clint knows, in theory, that none of this is his fault, but it doesn't stop him from thinking that she might be better off on her own. Time for the baby hawk to spread its wings, or some such shit.

(For the record, Kate Bishop has never been _anyone's_ sidekick. From the day she shoved her way into Clint's life, she's forged her own path. If it had to be one of them, he feels like he fits the sidekick role more - Kate questions him, challenges him, and in the end she usually gets her way. It's a spoiled brat thing, she tells him, and they laugh, but the reality is that she's smart and cunning and downright lethal and Clint would follow her anywhere.)

When Kate is 25, as far as the world is concerned there’s only one Hawkeye, and she’s it. Clint isn’t necessarily bothered by that - not by the gossip rags that catch them hanging out and refer to him as 'Kate Bishop's former mentor' and 'the old Hawkeye' and 'the retired one', and write about how he’s desperately clinging to his glory days. He doesn’t care about Jess’ raised eyebrow when he tags along to the Tower, or that half of the baby agents don't even know who he is. He's not an Avenger anymore, hasn't been for awhile now, but Kate. Kate is revered, the way she always should have been, and he can't bring himself to be bothered or jealous or anything other than so immensely proud that his cheeks hurt from grinning stupidly at her.

They’re still living out of each others’ pockets, his apartment their safe haven from the rest of the world. Her gear is spread out across the kitchen table, her shoes next to his by the door, an extra toothbrush on the bathroom counter. She hasn’t officially moved in, in the sense that they haven’t actually discussed it in words, but she’s spent every night since she returned lying near motionless in the bed next to him. There’s cold pizza and her head on his shoulder watching bad movies on the couch and it’s easy to pretend that nothing has changed.

That’s not the case, of course. It’s never going to be the two of them against the world again, risking their lives then bitching, drinking, and patching up their wounds. When Kate’s phone blares, Clint’s does not parrot back a moment later. She goes off to save the world, and he sits at home twiddling his thumbs. He still patches her up, gentle and reverent, and they still share a bottle of vodka and bitch about supervillains, but now he hears about things secondhand, and relies on the same tired memories while Kate’s exploits only continue to grow more impressive and fantastical.

He hasn’t been an Avenger in a long time. He’s okay with that, with being called by his name far more often than he’s called Hawkeye anymore. It’s a much harder thing to let go of _them_ \- of Hawkeye the twosome, the team. Kate of course has no such qualms. Or so he assumes; it’s not as if he’s actually asked. But she’s been carrying the Hawkeye mantle single-handedly for years now. It’s hers, it’s pretty much been hers and hers alone since they sat side by side after a nasty run-in with Galactus, bruised and bloody and winded, and she had asked if they could share the name, if she’d earned it. She deserves it probably more than he ever did, and it’s not fair to her or the legacy she’s building that he’s being such a stubborn ass about this. It just kills him to think that the thing that brought them together, bonded them, could very easily be the thing that tears them apart again. They’ve moved into something new, and it’s tentative and terrifying and he knows that any day she could get called away again, because he world needs Hawkeye far more than Kate Bishop needs Clint Barton. He knows that, knows it deep in his bones, even as he holds her close and continues to pretend otherwise.

~*~

When Kate is 20, she shows up on his doorstep at 3am. He knows something is wrong because she actually knocks.

"Whassamatter?" he mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The jumble of words is barely out of his mouth before she’s hurtling into his arms, face pressed into the skin of his neck. “Woah,” he murmurs, hand reaching up to stroke her hair. “What happened?” She lingers there for a moment, then pulls back. She sniffles, and there are very obvious tear tracks running down her cheeks, but she pulls herself up and grins at him like nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

“Avengers assembling,” she tells him. “Something out West. Top secret, yadda yadda.”

“Right,” Clint murmurs, because though he’s tempted to check his phone and his pager, he knows damn well neither of them have made a sound. There’s need for a Hawkeye, and apparently that doesn’t mean him anymore.

“Just wanted to say goodbye to Lucky,” Kate insists, shouldering past him into the apartment. Lucky has to be roused from sleep, but is as ecstatic to see Kate as ever, and she spends several minutes ignoring Clint completely in favor of ruffling his fur in all the right places. She only stops when a loud beeping emanates from her utility belt above, the din of Lucky’s pathetic happy whining. She thumbs it off without looking and grimaces.

“Assemblage time?”

“Apparently.” She doesn’t head for the door though, and neither of them really know what to say. It could be just a simple, one-and-done mission, but something tells him - both of them - that it’s more.

“Do you need anything?” he finally asks. It seems like the right thing to say, even though he knows good and well that Kate Bishop doesn’t need a thing from him.

“Yeah, give me your bow,” she jokes. Clint does his best to look mock offended.

“You can either keep my bow or my name, pick one.” Kate shrugs.

“Hawkgirl has a nice ring to it,” she muses. Clint snorts.

“No it doesn’t.”

“No. It doesn’t,” she agrees. Lucky is at her heels, eager for attention now that he’s awake and both of them seem to be standing around with nothing to do. Kate blindly reaches out to give him a perfunctory pat, but all the while she’s peering up at Clint with this intense expression that he can’t quite name. He almost wonders if she plans to kiss him again. He can’t say he’d be completely against the idea, but it never comes. Instead she hugs him again, tight and lingering. It lasts through another blaring of her pager, and then before he can say anything more, she’s whirled around and disappeared down the hallway. 

It takes a good week for it to sink in that she’s really, truly gone - even though she continues to text and email like she’ll be back any day now. But it’s okay (if one can accept ‘okay’ as being more akin to ‘feeling like there’s a gaping hole in his chest’), because he knows she’s out there kicking ass and taking names. He gets occasional updates from the others, who always seem surprised that he doesn’t already know, and he tries not to let that sting too much. He misses her, like a limb, like a breath. But he’s always known there was no way she could stay tied here to him forever.

When Kate is 25, she jimmies the lock on his door at just past 4am, and he nearly takes her out with a baseball bat.

“Really?” she teases him. “I mean I know I’ve been gone awhile, but did you really forget how to use a bow and arrow?” His shoulders sag, and he tosses the bat to the floor, not even bothering to ask how she bypassed the locked front door or the fancy StarkTech security system.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. He doesn’t mean it to come out as an accusation, but that’s apparently how Kate took it, if the hurt look that flashes across her face is anything to go by. She covers almost immediately, but it hasn’t been long enough that he can’t still read her like a book. 

They’re interrupted by the delayed reaction of Lucky, who has not fared the years as well as his owners. What was once his good eye is now clouded and rendered mostly useless, and his joints make even his usual stroll around the building an effort. He’s not quite the guard dog he once was, but still every bit as loyal, and when Kate sees him she gets distinctly misty-eyed. Clint hangs back and gives them a minute, long since having resigned himself to the fact that from the beginning, Lucky has always been just as much hers as his.

“He remembers me,” Kate says happily. Clint snorts.

“Of course he does. What, did you think we were just gonna forget about you?” Kate stands, fingers still scratching Lucky’s head.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” she admits quietly. It’s so ridiculous a notion that it’s enough for Clint to push past any remaining uncertainty and step forward, draw her into his arms. She’s a little taller and a lot more filled out, firm and muscular in a way that only years of dedicated training can hone, yet somehow she still feels the same, and Clint lets out a breath he wasn’t fully aware he was holding.

“Why are you here?” he tries again, softer this time. Kate turns her face into his neck.

“I wanted to come home,” she says simply. “This is home.” She doesn’t really phrase it as a question, but it’s there in her voice nonetheless.

“Oh, Katie-Kate,” he’s quick to assure her. “This will always be your home.”

~*~

When Kate is 25, Clint watches her across the roof of the apartment building and he forgets to breathe. She watches him with shrewd eyes, one hand on her cocked hip and the other casually twirling an arrow. She’s wearing leggings and an old t-shirt of his that both looks and smells like it needs washing, and he’s dumbstruck by how in love with her he is.

“Are we gonna do this or what?” she asks, and it takes Clint a second to remember that she’s talking about the array of targets lined up along the edge of the roof. He clutches his bow and watches her slip into position with practiced ease. 

“Ready when you are, Hawkeye,” he calls, and he sees her answering grin out of the corner of his eye even as he turns his attention to the first target. She lets loose an arrow, his following just a few milliseconds behind.

It’s easier up here. Kate is still every bit as breathtaking with a bow in her hand as the day he met her, and they while away silent hours just shooting. Up here, nothing can touch them and nothing has changed. It’s just the two of them, side by side, bodies and bows. The satisfying thwap of an arrow into the faded old targets, as they blow through two full quivers apiece. This feels good, feels right. Clint can breathe easier when they’re like this. He’s not overly familiar with the concept of a home, a safe place to land, but if he had to pick a feeling that most closely matched, it would be this. Them. Hawkeye.

They’re both breathing hard when it comes time to examine their targets and retrieve the spent arrows. Kate, unsurprisingly, landed each shot dead on. Clint misses four - by only a scant few millimeters, and compared to the sheer number of arrows they went through, it’s relatively nothing. But a year or so ago, it would have eaten at him. Now he just follows behind Kate, examining each arrowhead for potential damage and redistributing them back into their respective quivers. It’s a simple, quiet routine they’ve been through hundreds if not thousands of times. So much has changed in the years since she’s been gone, but little moments like this are enough to remind him that some things just can’t change. No matter how much the world or his subconscious tries to tell him otherwise. Hawkeye is two people, two halves of a whole, even if only one of them is currently bearing the name.

“Here,” he says abruptly, shoving his bow at her. “Take it. You should have it.” Kate looks at him askance, and he begs her with his eyes to understand what he’s trying to say to her. It’s not like he doesn’t have others - newer ones, better ones. This is a gesture. One he doesn’t know how to put into words, because feelings are never going to be his strong suit. Kate’s not much better, truth be told, but one of the best parts about them being them is that they’ve never really needed words. Sure, it’s worked against them more than once, but they also get in the way more often than not. They can shout and fight with the best of them, but when it’s just the two of them, up here on their turf, all it takes is his pleading look and Kate breaks out into a slow smile, pressing herself up against him. It’s an awkward embrace, what with the bows still in their hands and the quivers at their backs, but they make it work. Hawkeyes are nothing if not resourceful.


End file.
